


My Worst Fear

by anonalece



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonalece/pseuds/anonalece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Canon. Everlark through the eyes of Gale Hawthorne.</p><p>To do this prompt justice, I will be continuing this work through Suzanne Collins' series. At first I was intimidated by the prospect of delving into Gale's POV, but the more I thought about it, the more intrigued I became at re-reading the series with this particular frame of mind. Extrapolation will come into play as this series goes on, but I'm trying to remain true to the books in every way possible. I'm not sure when the next part will be ready, but I hope you appreciate a gift that keeps on giving :) Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Worst Fear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThirtySomething](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySomething/gifts).



On the morning of the Reaping, the town square is deserted. In a few hours a seciong in the center will be roped off, reserved for children of age while every other inhabitant of District Twelve will be corralled as close as possible in order to witness the main event: the random selection of two children between the ages of twelve and eighteen who will be ripped from the only life they’ve known, taken directly to the Capitol and thrown into an arena to fight twenty-three others until there is only one left standing. They teach us in school that the sacrifice of our children is meant to be a reminder of the consequences of the people rising up against the Capitol in a time before any of us were even born. While they barely acknowledge our existence, in return, they expect us to remain ignorant of how utterly dependent they are on the coal we provide - not only to the Capitol, but to each of the districts - and yet they claim to have our best interests at heart.

Instead of walking through the square, I skirt its edges out of habit and keep my head down, focusing on my destination. With the imminent threat of the Reaping, the added pressure of this being the last opportunity for my name to be pulled and with the number of slips with my name in that bowl, my pace is quicker than usual. As most of the shops are closed until after the ceremony, the only people milling about this early on this particular morning are Capitol employees prepping the Hall of Justice stage by hanging banners, setting up projection screens and hefting camera equipment to various perches around the square to be ensure the Capitol captures all the action during the actual event. Despite the aparent desolation, I know the bakery will be open. Its business will pick up immediately after the Reaping and that means a lot of prep work beforehand. I hope the baker is feeling generous because all I’ve got with me today is a squirrel from yesterday’s haul.

However, it’s not the baker who opens the door; it’s his son. I can’t recall his name, but I know he’s the youngest one. Without a word, he turns back towards the kitchen and I realize I wouldn’t recognize him at all if I hadn’t caught him staring at Katniss more than once, always when he thinks no one is looking. I know what most people assume is going on between the two of us and I’ve never seen the point in correcting them. The closer we get to outgrowing today’s display of the Capitol’s role in our lives, the less likely there will be a need to ever address it.

I’m left waiting at the back door only long enough for the baker to walk back from the front of the shop. He’s beet red from the heat being put out by the ovens and I know it will be compounded by the heat that is typically felt in the square on this day. Luckily for me, the baker is feeling generous today; the bartering he bothers with is mostly for show. I’m about to walk away with the best loaf of bread I’ll eat all year when he wishes me luck. I nod silently in return before turning to leave, unable to think of something to say in response especially with his son standing right behind him.

By the time I reach it, the sun has already warmed the rock ledge and I know that I won’t have to wait long for Katniss to show up. Something beyond mere recognition flashes across her face when I hold out the stabbed loaf of bread for her to examine and the way she closes her eyes to inhale its scent is more than a little unsettling. Just because I’m resigned to how things work here in District Twelve doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with it, the deeply engrained economic divides that dictate so much of our lives where bread not made of dense tesserae grain can be such a treat for some and an everyday occurrence for others. We might joke as if today were just a holiday, but we’re both far too aware that a little after two o’clock this afternoon the lives of two of our district’s children will effectively be over.

That’s why I suggest it, really. It’s not that different from how we survive now; if we left District Twelve we would be able to survive living off the land. From the amount of shock registering on her face, I realize that Katniss hasn’t ever contemplated this or anything like it and I disguise my strong desire to escape from this place, specifically with her, by reminding us both of the people who wouldn’t survive without us, our inherited responsibility for them that we’ve come to share.

I can still remember the way she looked at twelve years old. She was drowning in her father’s leather jacket, all skin and bones in the wake of her father’s death and her mother’s descent into depression. While she’s still too skinny for her own good, I know that has more to do with putting the hunger pains of her sister’s stomach before her own to anything else.

Since partnering up in the woods, I’ve developed a keen awareness of her body. Although motivated by the need to be able to work together efficiently, I’ve noticed the way her body has matured and filled out in the right places, despite a lingering level of malnutrition. I can only hope that given enough time, she will come to see the benefits of extending our partnership beyond the platonic solidarity we have in the woods.

I understand her aversion to having children when we already have so many depending on us already. After all, when her mother never truly bounced back from the death of her husband, I witnessed the harsh way that Katniss was forced to focus solely on the task of providing for her family, on the immediate need to the point of ignoring the possibility that things could ever be different. Whenever I think back on that time, I’m unable to resent my little sister for being another mouth to feed when being pregnant at the time may have been the only thing that saved my mother from suffering a similar decline in the wake of the mining accident that stole both our fathers.

It’s a relief when Katniss lets the subject drop easily, moving onto our plan for today’s hunt, it’s the reason we have ventured out into the woods on a regular basis, why we met in the first place. When we’re satisfied with our haul, we make our way to the portion of chain-link fence nearest the Hob. With venturing out into the woods and poaching being illegal activities, Katniss and I agree that doing most of our business at the black market makes the most sense.

We finish our trades quickly and decide to make our way into town to sell half of the strawberries. Always a loyal customer, the mayor can meet our appointed price. Seeing his daughter open the door obviously brushed up for the Reaping next to our dirt encrusted hunting clothes puts me on edge. I can’t help poking fun at her; it’s just too easy. I can’t resist the opening to release some of the resentment I feel over this day - over the whole damned system!

We don’t say anything as we make our way back to the Seam. I can tell that Katniss isn’t pleased with the way I treated her friend back there, but she also understands the inequality that upsets me, that it goes beyond the slips of paper in the Reaping bowls. We divvy up the remains of our morning’s work evenly and part ways to clean up for the ceremony ourselves. Townies aren’t the only ones with Reaping clothes.

It’s sweltering when we finish the long walk to the town square and the oppressive heat becomes worse as more and more potential tributes join others their age in the designated sections. Those ineligible spill into the surrounding area. Being my last year, I’m afforded a prime view of this year’s festivities from the frontmost section with the younger candidates all standing in descending order behind me.

A wry smile creeps onto my face as I take in the garish Capitol banners hanging from the buildings, but it vanishes as soon as I see the podiums where two officials will set the Reaping bowls. 42. That’s how many chances they have to pull my name. Not that I had another choice! We wouldn’t have survived without the tesserae grain and oil that I’ve been receiving in exchange for more slips ever since I inherited the spot at the head of the family from my father.

At precisely two o’clock, Mayor Undersee approaches the podium. I don’t bother listening, I know he’s going to give the same speech he does every year recapping our country’s history through the Dark Days, the Treaty of Treason and the creation of the Hunger Games. It’s humiliating to stand here year after year and hear how we must make recompense for things that happened before our lifetime. Twelve’s only living victor - half of our district’s grand total - stumbles onto the stage yelling something belligerent and falling heavily into the remaining chair onstage. As expected, the crowd claps respectfully, which only causes him to make more of a scene.

I take the time, while Effie, our district’s escort, gushes about what an honor it is to be here and represent the Capitol here in the outermost district, to look behind me. I spot Rory standing a head above the other fourteen year olds. I search the faces in front of him until I find hers. Her hair is up off her neck and the blue of the dress she’s wearing makes her look soft and feminine, so different from the girl I’d spent the morning with in the woods. She’s standing with all the other sixteen year olds and I notice that I’m not the only one admiring the way she looks dressed up for this torturous annual event. I see the baker’s youngest son gazing at her through the group of sixteen year olds. I look away, displeased to share the moment with anyone else.

All too soon Effie is rooting around in the bowl with the girls names. All I can think about are the twenty slips of paper with Katniss Everdeen written on them and all I can do is hope that hers isn’t the name picked. I hope for the same thing every year and yet there is no relief when someone else is chosen.

Prim’s name is a punch in the gut. One slip in thousands and it had to be the only one worse than my own. My stomach sinks even lower when Katniss bursts from the ranks and her strangled cries heard clearly over the deafening silence of the crowd. By the time she reaches her sister, they are nearly at the stairs and as much as I wish she wouldn’t, I expect her next words. When I see the way Prim buries her face in the back of her dress and the vice grip she has around her sister’s waist. Afraid that her mask will break, Katniss refuses to look back at Prim which means someone else will have to tear her away.

I step forward when none of the surrounding Peacekeepers make a move toward them, either unable or unwilling to discourage a young girl from some of the last moments she would ever spend with her sister because everyone knows being reaped is equivalent to returning in a wooden box. My tenuous hold on the wriggling girl in my arms and my emotions threatens to slip when she turns back to me, but I refuse to show the nation how much this girl means to me without telling her first. Instead, I urge Katniss up the steps and carry Prim to the back of the group of twelve year olds where Mrs. Everdeen has pushed to the front of the crowd. I leave them clutching each other over the paltry rope that separates the children from the crowd and as I return to my place in it, the crowd members raise their left hands in an old expression of respect.

I can tell she’s relieve when good ol’ Haymitch decides to take the focus off her by making a bigger ass of himself. While the crowd watches Haymitch stumble off the stage, I see the edges of Katniss’ mask slip for a moment, understandably moved by the district’s farewell. She pulls herself up to her full height and when she pulls her arms behind her, both her shoulders and mask lock into place. She doesn’t look at anyone; she doesn’t search for the still sobbing Prim or her distraught mother or the friend who just helped the sister she loves more than anything. Even though I can understand it, the way she refuses to acknowledge me as I stand as close to the stage as permitted still stings. I push the prick to my ego aside almost as soon as it pierces my consciousness because there are bigger things to worry about now.

Eager to move things along, Effie tries to inject excitement back into the festivities, once the Peacekeepers have carried our unconscious victor away on a stretcher, by approaching the Reaping bowl holding the boys’ names with more enthusiasm. She doesn’t give the crowd time to worry for their loved ones, instead reaching into the brimming bowl quickly and pulling out a slip of paper without the show she had made of it with the girls.

Then she announces the male tribute who will have the honor of joining Katniss in the arena and representing District Twelve: I know it’s the baker’s son because I recognize his last name. Now I know the first that goes with it, Peeta.

As soon as I recognize the boy who I’d encountered mere hours before at the bakery, I turn back to the stage, ready to dismiss him from my mind until I look at Katniss. She’s standing there tracking his progress through the crowd, her eyes riveted to the path the boy is taking toward the stage. She looks like the animals who realize they’re being watched yet unable to avoid the pierce of her arrow. The already rigid set of her shoulders has frozen into place and her eyes finally flick away when the mayor steps back to the podium to read out the Treaty of Treason in full. Again, Katniss refuses the comfort of a friendly gaze; instead, she sets her gaze on the wilderness I know is just visible on the horizon from here as I’ve often looked at it longingly while making trades. Only, I can tell she’s not really seeing it; there’s a distance in her eyes that goes beyond her usual unfazed expression. It bears a remarkable resemblance to the way I’ve caught my mother a number of times over the years, pausing in the middle of a task to stare off into space recalling a memory from before. Before the explosion. Before our lives changed forever. Looking up at where Katniss stands now, I realize that we have once again come to a point where things won’t ever be the same, no matter the outcome.

I shake myself out of trying to figure out what’s going on in her head to see the mayor gesture between the two District Twelve tributes. At this stage of the Games, tributes are meant to coexist peaceably and they are asked to shake hands before the broadcast ends. Being thus encouraged to look at each other properly for the first time since their names were called, Katniss turns to face Peeta. I feel the current of tension in the air shifts around the square; this is the last time any who do not visit them in the Justice Building before they are taken to the train station and whisked away to the Capitol are likely to see them alive again. They each take a step in the other’s direction, reaching out to each other. He has a sturdy build and yet his stance toward her is not menacing and watching the exchange as intently as I am, I’m impressed that neither of them blink under the other’s scrutiny.

When their hands fall once again to their sides, the mayor steps back between them and the three face the crowd together. Mayor Undersee tries to look pleased with this year’s tributes, but I have a feeling that seeing his daughter’s only friend chosen makes even the pained smile on his face difficult to muster. I see that Katniss and Peeta are both looking above the heads in the crowd with grim looks on their faces.


End file.
